"I didn't set out to be poetic. I set out to ride. But somewhere between mile 30 and mile 70, between sunrise and sunset, I started hearing the road differently. Not just as terrain, but as verse. The hum of my tires was meter. The climbs and descents, line breaks. The miles, stanzas. Sometimes the words come on the ride itself. Sometimes they come when I'm lying in my tent or sipping juice the next morning. But they always come. Because long rides strip the noise away. What's left is what matters."
"It's built on rhythm. Your legs keep time. Your breathing marks the meter. It's honest. A poem-and a bike-can't lie. They reveal what's inside. It's solitary, but not lonely. You're alone with your thoughts, but never without meaning. It begins when you let go. Just like poetry, a ride flows best when you stop trying to control every line."
"Here's one I heard once, rolling solo through West Texas: No music but breath, no witness but sky, My wheels turn stories no one can buy. The heat says stop. The heart says go. I answer both with miles and slow. Each ride a verse, each verse a mile, Some end in pain, some end in smile."
Long rides convert physical motion into poetic form by turning tire hum into meter, climbs into line breaks, and miles into stanzas. Poems can arrive during a ride or later while resting, because sustained distance strips away distraction and reveals what matters. Cycling mirrors poetry through rhythm, honesty, solitude without loneliness, and the necessity of letting go. Rides produce both struggle and joy, alternating verses that end in pain or in smile. Listening to the road, accepting winds and silence, yields personal lines that each rider alone can compose.
Read at Theoldguybicycleblog
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